Icicles Instead of Tears
by PurpleCarpetsAgainstViolence
Summary: Dean gets hit with a curse and just can't get warm. Sam's there to help. This is what I like to call Schmoopy Whump Without Plot


Dean has been apologizing for the last hour and a half.

Not out loud, mind you. Dean has issues with the concept of saying the words _I_ and _am_ and _sorry_ while his brother's in the same room. It's always some variant of 'c'mon, I'll buy ya a fruit cup' or 'wanna drive?', but right now, Dean's not even up to that. Instead Sam is treated to two pools of green peering out from under several layers of sheets, reflecting shame and regret and sorry, following him as he paces across the room, begging Sam's forgiveness.

"I don't get it," Sam huffs in the direction of the heap of blankets on the bed. He's not interested in an apology. As far as he's concerned Dean screwed up and now he's paying the price, fair and square. "You knew that bar was bad news. You _knew_ people get hurt there."

The blankets rustle when Dean, somewhere underneath them gives a sheepish shrug that quickly turns into a violent shiver. "D-d-didn't think-k it'd b-be the hot bar t-t-tender chick-k."

"It's always the hot chick, dude." Sam rolls his eyes and walks over to the kitchen, where the old water boiler he found there starts to sends small puffs of steam into the air. He's really not feeling too much sympathy for his brother right now. "And you're old enough to know not to take candy from strangers."

"W-w-asssn't cand-dy," Dean stubbornly keeps talking over the clatter of his own teeth. "Was a drink-k. And-d sh-she wasn't-t a st-t-t-ranger."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks. He stops rummaging through the cupboards in search for some tea in order to shoot a questioning look at his brother. Dean pulls the comforter he's wrapped around his head down for a second to reveal a shivering version of a lewd smile and Sam decides he'd rather not know what exactly happened to move the witch out of stranger territory.

At least it's the messing-around-I'm-just-having-fun-with-this-cool-book-I-found kind of witch, Sam figures, not the crazy, demon worshipping kind that delights in making people die in horribly disgusting ways.

"H-h-how much long-g-ger?" Dean asks, comforter back in place.

"Just today," Sam repeats what Bobby told him over the phone for what feels like the hundredth time. "Till the poison's out of your system. Just be glad you only had one shot."

Sam picks up the steaming cup of tea and carefully carries it across the room, just in time to see the blankets shift awkwardly.

"You did only have one shot, right?" Sam asks incredulously.

Dean's answering "yup" doesn't even attempt to sound genuine. Great. Sam is going to seriously kick his big brother's stupid ass. Once he's stopped shivering and looking like a pathetic kicked kitten, that is.

Dean worms his hands out of his sheets to take the cup from Sam. He doubts it'll do much good to warm him up. Not like the blankets are helping any. He tries to take a small sip, when another spasm shoots through his arms right into his fingertips, sloshing burning hot liquid all over his freezing hands.

Dean can hear Sam cursing, snatching the now half empty cup out of his hands, ripping soaked blankets away from Dean, but all Dean can focus on is how the wet spots on his hands and chest _aren't fucking hot_. He registers the pain that comes with first degree burns, but underneath that he's still a fucking icicle. Fuck.

"Fu-uck-ck," he tries to voice his opinion. He'd come up with more derivations of the word if his teeth were just a tiny bit more cooperative.

"Lose the shirt," Sam shoots over his shoulder, rooting around in one of his duffel bags. Bossy little bitch is getting more like their old man every day. Dean doesn't like it. He'd call him a bossy little bitch to his face, too, but frankly, there are too many B's and T's in there to come out as a semi-respectable insult, so Dean keeps his mouth shut and loses the shirt.

Sam throws a clean Henley in the general direction of Dean's bed and Dean forces his arms to unclench from around his middle for long enough to put it on.

Sam finally stops his treasure hunt inside his bag and sits down next to Dean, carrying something grey and cozy and…

"'m not d-d-d-dying, d-dude," Dean manages to scoff, leaning slightly forward to allow for Sam to wrap his old hoodie around his shoulders. He's probably imagining things, but somehow he feels a tiny bit less cold.

Sam drapes the blankets from his own bed around Dean's shivering form and takes the abandoned cup from the nightstand. The tea's probably cooled down quite a bit by now and anyway, Dean doubts he'll feel the heat on the inside any more than he felt it on his skin. (Fucking witch. Dean hates witches.) Besides, his hands aren't any more cooperative than they were five minutes ago, so how the hell is he supposed to..

Sam doesn't put the cup in Dean's waiting hands, but moves it right up to Dean's mouth.

Oh.

Yeah, right. Sam's gonna feed him like a sick toddler.

Not.

"D-dude, I'm not-t f-f-four!"

"Drink."

And Dean opens his mouth and drinks in tiny little awkward sips. But fuck, it's Sam's _voice._ It has that tone that makes Dean want to salute and stand at attention. He wonders if Sam knows he's channeling Dad and what that does to Dean. He really hopes not. He'd hate to have somebody have that kind of power over him.

Anyway, the tea doesn't help any, so Sam has to come up with a dozen other pointless attempts at getting Dean warm.

"Okay, m-mayb-b-be I had more'n one shhhot," Dean mumbles, when it's past midnight and it's obvious the poison's not anywhere near of out his system.

Sam gives his brother a look and crosses the room, carrying the hot-water bag he got from the front desk for his "kid brother. He's got a bad stomach, you know. Always eats the worst things."

Dean eyes the bag with a hint of distrust. Sam doesn't blame him. Every other thing he's tried in the past hours to get his brother to warm up has been unhelpful at best and painful at worst. Sam watches the older man pull the bag under the covers and curl himself around it. He can still feel the lingering heat the thing left on his hand, but then again, so did the tea and cocoa and soup and he could feel the heat from the hot bathtub all the way through the door, but Dean discarded all of them with an annoyed frown. Just like he does now with the bag.

"Hurts?" Sam asks, his earlier exasperation all but gone now that he's exhausted and generally focused on worrying.

Dean nods miserably and pushes the bag away from his shaking form.

"You d-don't have t-to st-tay, y-you know," he mumbles, shooting Sam a pitiable expression. Sam tilts his head to the side in silent question, so Dean continues in that shaky, tired, trembling voice of his. "C-c-can jus' g-go t-t-to sleep if you wanna. Or go out-t or something-g. Don't-t have to stay h-h-here 'cause of m-me."

Sam does his best to look annoyed rather than sad. "Maybe I wanna stay here with you," he sighs.

"B-but you need t-t-t-to sleep," Dean insists and Sam thinks that he might just want to hurt his brother really badly for always putting his own needs last.

"Yeah, well you need to sleep, too," he says instead.

"C-c-can't."

Sam sighs. He knows he can't. He's tried. Says he's too cold to focus on anything else. And even if he could, the violent spasms wrecking his body every other second are too much of a distraction, anyway.

"Scoot over," Sam finally decides, sitting down on the edge of Dean's bed.

"What the hell?" Dean's eyes grow wide in an alarmed look that suggest Sam just came up with the most twisted and despicable plan known to man.

"Sharing body heat," Sam improvises. "We haven't tried that yet, c'mon."

"I'm not sharrrring my bed with my bab-by s-s-sister."

Sam doesn't wait to be insulted again and simply pulls the multitudes of covers over himself, pushing Dean to the side to make room for his own big frame.

"The h-hell," Dean mutters again, but he doesn't physically push Sam away when he wraps his arms around him.

Sam in turn decides to not comment when the shivering gets significantly less violent almost instantly. Dean's breathing evens and soon enough the lout clattering of teeth that has been their companion for the last day dies down to a low-key patter.

"Told you I'd help," Sam can't help his smug smile.

It takes a second, but he can feel his brother shift under the blankets and scoot closer to the warmth Sam seems to provide.

"You're one giant-t, cu-uddly, gay sasquatch, dude."

And soon after that Dean's asleep and Sam is thinking that if he has to stay here, next to his brother for the next day (or two or three, or however many fucking shots Dean drank), then he's probably okay with that.


End file.
